Solitude
by x. I Got You First .x
Summary: One-Shots written for The Convergence Creation Week 2018. Mainly character studies involving Harrison Wells, Ray Palmer, Tony Stark, Scott Summers, and an OC, Jared Williamson.
1. Together (Harrison Wells)

There was a man standing on the grass, boots planted shoulder-width apart and gaze inclined down to where he could read the name emblazoned on the stone. Neither the sun shone nor the clouds poured, only a slight wind caught in his hair. His hair usually failed to be tamed by a comb, but now it stuck up at more odd angles than not, partially from the wind, partially from his sleepless nights, and part from the hands, his agitated hands, running through it at all times of day.

There was no one around to fuss about it. No one remained who cared enough to run quick a comb through, front to back, or straighten his jacket before he left or give him a brilliant smile and a 'see you later'. There was only one person who would have done that; he was standing just above.

* * *

Harrison Wells, now, knew the definition of many words. From complementarity to relativity to quark matter to duality. Vast was his vocabulary and scientific knowledge alike, but not one of the words he could rattle off at the labs had much of an impact on him. He could explain how the universe expanded, how to tell speed when given the time, why and what stars can collapse into black holes, and none of it would feel like anything more than the work he loved. He could define words by the dozen, but words were words. Words were tools, and tools didn't make him feel much of anything.

Only one made him think of anything more.

 _Together_.

Together meant the bonding of atoms, an order to create molecules from simple water or complicated glucose. Together meant the dual nature of the universe, particles and waves working in tandem, making up all one could see (and all one could not). Together meant two people who just so happen to love each other enough to stand by each other's sides.

Together, like with atoms, also meant the possibility of breaking apart. Together served as a reminder of the darkness crashing through, the guilt, the regrets, and everything which had been eating him from the inside for the past decade. He lashed out because of this, still short-fused, cynical, and disgruntled in bedside manner. He held people at arms length, pretended they wouldn't mean more than a casual encounter on the side of the road, never expecting that through the dark he could be found. He thought, he was lost, for good.

* * *

There was a man standing several stories above the small island of Neith, boots settled shoulder-width apart and gaze set straight ahead. Although the truth seemed daunting at first, in retrospect it tumbled out so much easier than he could have anticipated. He could see a pair of brown eyes even now watching him. He could gather that, perhaps, shei and him were more alike than he first understood. Perhaps, of all those he could be caught with in the one place compelling him to tell the truth, _she_ was far from the worst option.

Even the faintest glimmer of hope, to him, was rare. And yet, maybe, if he lifted his head and reached out a hand, whatever new things may be on the fray weren't nearly as bad as he initially would have concluded.


	2. Harmony (Ray Palmer)

**A/N** : _Welp, here we go, posting an unchecked second installment just to get it in on time. Up today, for Day 2, is Ray Palmer's time to shine._

* * *

 **How to be an Optimist 101  
** _Harmony & Clocks_

"Why can't anything work the first time?" he says with a knowing grin, eyes traveling up to the face of his creation. He shakes his head, supposing a little more tweaking had to be done to the design. It will be a long night ahead of him, he can foretell. As much as he needs a good night's rest after everything which just happened, he can never let a half-solved mystery slide away from him, even if he knows he'll return the next day.

That's when things flips upside-down. Ray doesn't feel anything or see much more than a blur, but he hears a massive roar of pressure screaming out and suddenly the floor no longer supports his feet. A weightless feeling flutters in his stomach like butterflies, teasing his brain; is he upside down or rightside up, it's so hard to tell.

His back hits something hard and flat – the floor? – but before he can discern anything else, his eyelids snap shut. Black overtakes all.

 _ **Day 1**_

Ray comes around to consciousness in what he believes to be merely seconds after blacking out. His eyes open to a dark ceiling above him, a dark grey from artificial illumination. It can still be his top-floor lab back at Palmer Tech, but there aren't any windows around to let in the time of day. And the pattern up above is all wrong too. The thought that this might not be his company jolts him upright. His head swivels around his new surroundings.

He is still wearing his atom undersuit, the same red leather and black elastic he wears beneath his exosuit for a layer of protection against cuts and abrasions. He studies his limbs. Everything looks proportional to the rest of him, and no injuries present. He feels a "whoop!" of excitement rise in his throat, hope reinvigorated at the prospect of his test not _completely_ failing, but then he just has to look up and sour the mood.

The glass cube he stands confined in is not the worst part, believe it or not. There are two things achieving a lower rank than captivity on the list of 'things to ruin your day'. A giant face leans close to the glass, piercing cold eyes and an evil smirk twisting his features. Without the glass, Ray would feel so very vulnerable. With the cubic prison, he simply feels like a bug under scrutiny, trapped in a glass to be flung into the toilet. The fact that he stands only two inches tall does not help matters.

 _ **Day 2**_

Fear. Not a new emotion. It courses through his veins next to constantly. He's had one visit from his captor and one day inside this prison, and his mind is already jumping to a million negative alternatives. The prospect of how long he'll remain trapped there drives his mind in circles. Will he even be given food and water? How else would he survive? What does this blond guy want anyway?

He takes a breath. Ray has two main options now: he can freak out and panic and drive himself crazy with all which can happen, or he can keep all the energy it takes to think negatively and flip it around. If he has to die, at least he'll die positively.

 _No 'dying'_ , he chides himself. _You're going to make it out. You're a physicist, an engineer, think of something_.

The universe always presents things in balance. Whenever it offers a million bad circumstances lined up in a row, there is another row of good things just waiting to be found. And sometimes they are hidden far away from plain sight, but Ray prides himself in his uncanny ability to seek them out. Now, more than ever, he'll need that beam of sunshine to search for the positive.

 _ **Day 4**_

Already, Ray's growing bored of the environment. He holds fast to his positive for the day – he has his suit still, and it more or less works – but good thoughts only do so much to combat the repetitive nothingness of the hours ticking by. He entertains himself with the blasters in the suit's gloves, weaponising them so instead of passive flight-stabilisers they become glass-shattering battering-rams, in a sense. Ray chuckles at his medieval comparison. How he'd give anything for another night to read his book on Camelot, _The Legend of King Arthur_. Although, it would have to be shrunken down for easy use, otherwise turning the pages might be difficult.

If only he can be a knight now, like Sir Lancelot or Galahad. Somewhere within, the little kid in love with a myth still lives, and he is certain it's among the things which kept him facing forward.

 _ **Day 8**_

People come and go. Only Ray remains day in, day out. He doesn't know their names. Once, he figures some company in this forsaken cube will make the minutes pass quicker, so he attempts to capture the attention of whoever enters next. First, a woman, clad in black combat gear, leans against the work table, but she pays no attention to the tiny man. He tries with the next man who comes in, but a single, curt, snarky remark is all Ray acquires for his efforts.

He refuses to give up.

For the next hour, he persists, sometimes earning a dirty look or a pointed, "shut up!" At least Ray invoked _something_ , and he can take pride in that. He smiles.

It's a small smile, a little smug, but it gets him through the day alright.

 _ **Day 64**_

The floor is comfortable. Ray's flat on his back, looking up at the ceiling again. His mind has been spinning lately, and the more it spins, the deeper into nostalgia he spiraled. All that he's left behind haunts him, and being trapped for so long makes him incapable of escaping such hauntings.

His mother, his company, Felicity. What does everyone in Starling think happened? Is he dead to him or are people searching for the lost CEO? Who owns the company and what happens to the legacy he tried so hard to build?

What happens if he escapes this cell? _If_ , he corrects a split second later. The minute he gets out, he's going to fly his suit to the nearest Big Belly Burger and buy the largest, fattiest burger they have. He makes a mental pact with himself. A man, even tiny, can only enjoy crackers and cheese for so long, especially when it takes so long to break a crumb off small enough to fit his mouth around.

And the water, oh, it's horrible. All they give him is a bottle cap full, and the taste is too metallic too enjoy, too grungy and somehow less refreshing than if he dies of thirst.

The thought " _at least he_ had _water_ " is starting to lose effect. The mysterious, blond face needs him for something, and the water simply keeps sustained long enough to meet whatever goals necessary. Is there anything stopping the man from killing him once ends are met?

In short: He hoped so.

 _ **Day 124**_

He's been looking at this all wrong. He's been so stupid, he could laugh at his past self. The suit's wavelength can't penetrate the cage for the same reason he can't break the glass: the suit's power is too feeble. The wavelength, it's too weak. For the first time in weeks, he feels like laughing. And it feels good to let it out. All he needs now is a way to the outside that's stronger, more reliable...

 _ **Day 128**_

Lightbulb moment. After the doom and gloom of the past days, he lets out another grin. Its intensity is anemic, yet he has a solution, at the very least.

The speakers and cameras in two of the corners, they must be drawing power from somewhere outside. If he can hack into the broadcasting signal, maybe he can send a message, and maybe he can get the hell out of this place.

A glimmer of possibility is all he needs. As a famous person probably said, as long as you find some hope, there's something worth fighting for.

 _ **Day 182**_

For one-hundred and eighty-two days, they tried to get his tech. And all that while, Ray refused. But he's exhausted now. The hope he found months ago is starting to wear thin. He pushes through, but captivity for long enough always begins to tear a man's psyche down.

For one-hundred and eighty-two days, he kept his grip tight around the hope that someone will find him and bring him home, for fear that one loose finger would set it loose. Tight smiles and forced determination slowly took control, and it exhausted Ray. He sits down with his back to the glass wall, trying to believe in some last resort.

He can almost see Felicity running around the corner... but he's surely mistaken. The optimism was going to far, perhaps. After all, it's been five months captive. Any lesser man would succumb after the first three for certain.

Immediately, he stands. This isn't a mirage or a trick of his mind. A friend has come running at his call. He's in safe hands now.

And he smiles.


	3. Promises (Jared Williamson)

_My third one-shot of The Convergence Creation Week 2018. Today is for my OC Jared Williamson, from The Flash, and centres around promises._

* * *

She leaned across the table's surface with a kindly smile but stern gaze. Mothers all had a special talent, one of making people feel both comforted and put in place, all at the same time. Jared wondered how she did it. He looked down at his cereal bowl without the intent of eating any of its contents. He had yelled last night, and he had shot back in retaliation at the disappointment he had earned. Slamming doors and muffled shouts into his pillow, the usual.

 _One more time_ , he figured. But who was he kidding? He liked the thrill, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. _A quick run around with a couple teammates_. Harmless. Or so it would seem.

Then, she had to go all the way and rip soccer – the _one_ thing going for him – away from him. The team, his life, the satisfying sound of his foot striking the ball. He wished he hadn't screwed it up; his neck had already been on the line from the previous offenses, meaning Mum's fuse was reaching its end. Did he think about that when he ducked under the blatantly obvious yellow tape, urged ahead by his best friend, just to snap a photo or two? (Who was he kidding: it wasn't _only_ for the photos.) Did he think of the future he'd be gambling? Did he think of El, even? In truth, no. No one but himself.

"Jared." That warning tone. Jared didn't like it, nor did he like what he anticipated would be next. "Look me in the eye."

He didn't want to, but eventually the burden of silence forced his gaze upwards. Tentatively, he peeked at the shining brown eyes and fidgeted his fingers a little around his spoon. Shoulders rose as he inhaled deeply, focusing all his willpower on _not subjecting_ and dropping his shameful gaze back to his forsaken breakfast. A splash of milk and some soggy granola; it hardly seemed appetising now. He straightened somewhat.

"I swear, I didn't mean– I can make it up to you! I can–!"

He was silenced with a look.

"I'll make a deal. Can we do that?"

Jared slumped his shoulders forward again, yet this time he was not strong enough to keep his eyes up on his mother. Head down, he muttered, "I guess? What's the deal?"

"I'll allow you back on the team– ." The teen perked up, eyes wide and hopeful. He could hardly believe it! He could make it back on the pitch, part of a team, and his life would fall right back on track. If he stopped now, he'd never get far enough ahead. He'd lose his momentum, his respect. He felt like jumping in the air to celebrate! But a hand reached out and pressed against his fidgeting hands, and suddenly the celebratory urge was quelled. She wasn't done– there was a catch– always. There always had to be something… "But you have to promise me, none of this business again."

Jared sensed something incomplete there, and he dared challenge the seemingly final verdict.

"That's it? I mean, yeah. I promise. Hell yeah, I do! I'm back on the te–!"

"One slip-up, and I'm calling Coach Dimsky."

Just barely containing his eagerness to get this promise over with, Jared nodded.

"We are going to have a talk after school today, and there will be no getting together with friends for an entire month."

"Mum, come on!" He leaned his head back, letting a frustrated sigh escape him at the applying conditions. _There's always a kicker_ , he thought bitterly. _Always_. "But what if–?"

And she was stern again, in the blink of an eye. How peculiar it was, the ability for mothers to switch between understanding and caring to harsh and reprimanding. "I won't hear it. You break a condition, the deal is off."

Jared merely nodded.

"I want to hear it. Do you promise me?"

"I– yeah. Yeah, I promise." His lips pressed into a tight line.

"Good. And four months of doing both yours _and_ Ella's chores around the house."

It took all his willpower to keep the protests locked up inside him. Part of the reason the floodgates kept a hold was because, by the time his mind churned through the words completely and he turned in his seat to object, his mother was already out the door. For the next month, the restrictions tempted Jared often, but eventually he got the hang of it. School and soccer practices were the only activities he could venture outside the property for. He hated the confinement, although the work finally became a routine. Temptation arose, still, such as when his teammates nearly convinced him to come on a pre-game, late-night excursion with them, but the promise held him back. He could risk it, he couldn't afford it if he got caught.

And he made a promise.


	4. Goodbyes (Scott Summers)

_The final chapter of this year's Convergence Creation Week. May there be many more. The theme is Goodbyes & Castles, and – let me just say – I hope I do not have to say goodbye the wonderful forum that got me through the last three, anxiety-filled years of high school. I love you all! But without anything further, day seven..._

* * *

The hill was steep and the night was cold, but none of it could dampen Scott's smile. He hiked up the steep slope, glancing over his shoulder every so often to see Jean beside him. Every time he did that, his reason for grinning became more solid. It didn't matter that his breathing was becoming a little heavier as they climbed or his arms shivered even under the protection of his sports jacket; he had Jean's hand in his.

They settled on the crest of the hill, saving the blanket they were planning on spreading atop the grass for laying across their legs instead. They each brought a snack as well; Jean had a small bag of little chocolates while Scott, of course, brought the Nilla Wafers.

They exchanged containers at random intervals, talking about everythings and nothing all at once. Nothing, because none of it seemed really significant, and everything, because it was him and he was talking with Jean. Any moment shared with her was one worth remembering.

Eventually, the conversation shifted to more... worrying matters.

"What'll happen, when this all ends?" Jean asked as casually as her hand slipping into the wafer box.

"Let's not think of that." Scott couldn't help it– normally, he wouldn't shut her down like that, but thoughts such as that, such as the question she just asked so simply, crept into his thoughts from time to time and worried him immensely. After a while, he learned to push the thought aside whenever it rose up again – get it out before it'd get too deep inside his head.

Jean sighed slightly and turned over to regard him. "You said I was here before–"

"A couple times–"

"Right–"

"One where you were thirty-something and from another timeline–"

"Besides the point," she chided, and Scott shut up, but not even a full second later did they break into small, mischievous smirks. "I'm saying, there's nothing stopping.. _that_ from ever happening again–."

"Then..." Scott scrambled for something to say, some sort of reassurance, but he had nothing. The future was already intangible, but in this world it was _fragile_. Every moment that existed was now and only now; they could be gone tomorrow, they could be gone in a few years, and the future they might be imagining would crumble into the abyss. At least back home, they had no worries about waking up one day and watching everything around them vanish into thin air. Literally. "Then... we'll make a promise."

"A promise?"

"Yeah."

"What kind of promise, Summers?" She shifted around him so she could comfortably look him in the eye, a teasing smile drifting across his features.

"No more disappearances. I can't and you can't just vanish one day."

Had her smile always been this sad? Scott just noticed. He took a deep breath, ready to correct anything he said, really to right the wrong he apparently made, but before he could work up the ability to do so, she interjected.

"Consider the promise made." Her contented smile bounced back, and she leaned in to plant a gentle kiss on Scott's lips before turning away. "I'm not ready to say goodbye just yet."


End file.
